Kushiel's Scion (113 page)
I bowed to him in the Cassiline manner. I wished there was sunlight to cast a shadow, I wished I'd thought to remove my helmet so I could hear better, I wished my ears would stop ringing. I closed my eyes and listened, shutting out the din and clamor. Hard, harder than I'd ever listened during one of Phèdre's games. All the world narrowed to this moment. With my eyes closed, I stepped outside myself and concentrated on this Duke, this stranger, closer to me in this moment than any lover had ever been.
And I heard an indrawn breath, softer than a lover's gasp.
I didn't wait for the exhale. By the time he threw, it would be too late. I straightened, sweeping my vambraced forearms before me, my eyelids flying open. All around me was knife-edged brightness. The jolt of the javelin's impact against the outer vambrace struck me to the bone, my arms aching at it. Everything ached. For the space of a heartbeat, I wasn't sure if I was alive or dead. Then I heard the javelin clatter harmlessly to the cobblestones and the crossbows sang once more.
This time they were closer. No one missed.
Bristling like a pincushion, Domenico Martelli, the Duke of Valpetra, slumped sideways and fell off his horse. He landed with a dull thud and lay without moving.
"You alive, Montrève?" Lucius called.
"Yes," I called back. "I think so."
"Good."
They were surrendering, all of them; laying down their arms and surrendering. I supposed I was glad. If Eamonn was alive, I would be. I made my way to his side. He was slouched against the ledge, one hand clamped to his head. Blood trickled down his neck and leaked between his fingers.
"Are you—?" I asked anxiously.
"I'll live." He gestured with his chin, then winced. "Look to him."
Canis.
He was still alive when I returned, though barely. The javelin had pierced him clean through, the bloody point exiting from his chest. Like me, he wore only a leather jerkin. He was curled on his side, his hands clasped loosely around the head of the shaft. I knelt beside him, understanding what he'd done. Valpetra had cast two javelins, and the first when my back was turned. Canis had taken the death-blow meant for me.
"Why did you do it?" I asked softly.
There was a froth of blood on his lips, but his brown eyes were clear, filled with a mixture of pain and rue. Canis the Cynic; the cheerful philosopher-beggar; Canis the deaf-mute; Canis the Unseen Guilds-man; Canis the soldier. All along, he had been there. I had a thousand questions and he held a thousand answers, but time to speak only one. I had to bend low to hear his faint voice.
"Your mother sends her love," he whispered.
There was no more. With a quiet, bloodstained smile, Canis died.
The siege was over.
Chapter Sixty-Three
In the days that followed, I pieced together all the varying accounts to make sense of what had transpired. Gallus Tadius' plan had worked to a point. Bent on looting and slaughter, most of Valpetra's men had scattered throughout the city, falling prey to traps and ambush. A good many had surrendered of their own will. I daresay the madness that had befallen everyone when the mundus manes was uncovered had begun to disperse after Gallus Tadius sent the floodwaters to hell.
Not Valpetra's.
He'd held a core of his men together and gone hunting me, consumed with the notion of revenge. When Lucius realized it, he'd rallied the Red Scourge in pursuit, turning the hunted into hunters. The sentries atop the walls had spotted the approaching army of D'Angeline and Tiberian forces, and their appearance in the city had tipped the balance; Silvanus the Younger had cut his losses and surrendered.
And Canis…
No one knew for sure. Cutpurse squadron had sustained heavy losses, and none of his fellows remembered seeing him after their initial retreat. They'd assumed him dead. I could only guess that he'd deserted. Like Valpetra, he'd gone looking for me.
Your mother sends her love.
I knelt beside his body for a long time, there on the cobbled streets of Lucca, rain dripping from my helmet. I was too tired to know what I felt, other than pain. All around me, there were men—cheering and groaning, sullen, wounded, dying. I would like, I thought, to spend a good deal more time in the company of women.
More hoofbeats; an uncertain voice. "Your highness?"
I pried myself to my feet, aching in every part, and gazed upward. "Messire LeClerc."
Once again, I was filthy and bedraggled in the presence of the D'Angeline ambassadress' guardsmen; clad in motley armor, splashed with mud and gore. This time, there was no hint of amusement in their regard. Quentin LeClerc dismounted and his men followed suit. There in the filthy street, they all dropped to one knee.
"Your highness," he repeated, bowing his head. "We came in all haste."
"Thank you." There were lines of Tiberian faces behind the kneeling D'Angelines, alert and attentive. And clean. They all looked so clean. I took off my helmet and rubbed my face with a fold of my sodden cloak. "Mayhap… mayhap you could help with the wounded."
Quentin LeClerc stood. "Of course, your highness."
"Call me Imriel," I said wearily.
He began to give orders, calm and efficient, and they spread through the streets, helping sort the dead from the wounded, giving what comfort they might to the latter. Atop the roofs and the walls, the sentries were sounding the all-clear, and Luccan citizens were beginning to emerge, wailing or rejoicing at the fate of their loved ones. Lucius was busy organizing the surrender of Silvanus' men, who were being gathered from all quarters of the city and herded into the empty fabric warehouse where Barbarus squadron would have made its second stand. There was a great stack of weapons piling up on the portico.
I stooped and gathered Canis' body in my arms, carrying him over to the ledge where Eamonn was waiting. He was on his feet, weaving a little, the rain making pink rivulets through the blood seeping along his neck. I laid Canis down gently, then eased the bloody length of the javelin from his chest and set it aside. We both gazed at him. He looked peaceful in death.
"So," Eamonn said. "Who was he?"
"I don't know," I said. "My mother sent him."
"Phèdre?"
"No." I shook my head. "My mother." I touched his arm. "Come on, Captain Barbarus. Let's get you patched."
Eamonn nodded at a dead Valpetran. "Your dagger."
The hilt jutted forth between the man's eyes. A part of me was tempted to leave it. I didn't want to remember killing him with it. But Joscelin had given them to me when I'd turned fifteen. It was after the winter when I'd first kept Elua's vigil on the Longest Night with him. I remembered the carriage ride home, shivering and delirious, when I'd told him I wanted to be like him.
Ah, love, he'd said. Don't wish for that.
I had, though.
I put one foot on the Valpetran's breastplate, grabbed the hilt, and yanked. It came out hard; I'd planted it with a good deal of force. There was a cracking sound and it came free. The corpse's helmeted skull bounced on the cobblestones. I thought about that vast pit opening beneath the city, the obsidian curtains of water spilling downward, downward, and wondered if the Valpetran's spirit was wandering a flooded Caerdicci hell, all its five rivers swollen and raging.
I wondered how many others I'd sent there.
I didn't know.
"Imri," Eamonn said.
I laughed, or at least I made a sound that resembled a laugh. "Is three a lot, Eamonn? I wanted to ask you, before. Because I didn't think it was, but you made it sound like it was. And now I don't know how many. Four, anyway."
"I owe you my life," he said simply.
It was enough; it had to be enough, because if it wasn't, there was nothing else. Standing in the cold, drizzling rain, I met his steady grey-green gaze and forced myself to smile. "Do you suppose Brigitta will think better of D'Angelines because of it?"
Eamonn managed a grin. "No."
In the baths, where most of Barbarus still loitered, we were greeted as heroes; or at least Eamonn was. Me they regarded with a renewed wariness—whether it was because of Canis, or Valpetra, or LeClerc and his men kneeling in the street to me, I couldn't say—but they fell over themselves to pound Eamonn's shoulders, his back. He bore it with stoic good humor, looking a little green and sick. Matius, who was neat-handed, bound his bleeding head with a length of clean bandage.
Outside, we heard a chant begin.
"Gallus! Gallus!"
Eamonn caught my eye. "We should be there."
I nodded. "Tell them."
He rose. "Listen, lads!" he called, and they fell silent. "Barbarus squadron will pay homage to the man who led us to victory. When the time comes, follow my lead, eh?"
They agreed, chanting Gallus Tadius' name with cheerful oblivion. We spilled onto the portico. The streets were still thronged, though mostly with the living and victorious now. Lucius was in the thick of it, soldiers surging around him, the red horsehair crest bobbing.
"Gallus! Gallus!"
I leaned against a column. Somehow, amidst the turmoil, Lucius glanced toward me. Beneath the shadow of his gilded helmet, I saw his wide mouth quirk in a smile. I thought about his kiss and smiled in reply.
"Lucca!" he called, his voice clear and carrying; his voice, Lucius' voice, Master Piero's prize student, capable of arguing black into white and night into day. "Know this! In your hour of need, Gallus Tadius served you well. He taught you, he trained you, and he laid his plans. He loved Lucca so well, he returned from the underworld to serve it; he loved Lucca so well, he returned to the underworld to save it! It is only thusly that the flood was dispelled, and Gallus Tadius banished. And I have done my best to lead you in accordance with his wishes."
There were cheers, but there was a note of bewilderment amidst them.
Lucius raised his hand. "And for that, I, Lucius Tadius da Lucca, honor the spirit of my great-grandfather, and give thanks for your courage!"
A confused silence settled.
Eamonn drew a deep breath, his broad chest swelling, and loosed his booming voice. "Lu-cius! Lu-cius! Lu-cius!"
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